


Butterflies and Hurricanes

by Princesse Palatine (Petronille)



Series: The Whole of the Moon [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brittany - Freeform, Drama, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Faeries - Freeform, France - Freeform, Heroine's Journey, fae
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronille/pseuds/Princesse%20Palatine
Summary: Prequel to "All This and Heaven Too." Isabelle Brignonen Sayre returns from a summer in France to find life at the Xavier Institute much altered... and not at all to her liking. But soon she finds that everything is changing, and not for the better. As she works to balance her mutant abilities with her Fae powers, a war is swiftly approaching, and the first battle is closer than she thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men, Avengers, or any other associated properties, but all original characters are mine. This is a prequel to "All This and Heaven Too." We know where Logan and Isabelle are, but how did they get there? This is in the same universe as the lovely LostMyMarbles's "Change Your Mind Change Your Life," a romance between Darcy Lewis and Dr. Victor Von Doom, so please read it! It's quite good!

_October, 1999._  
_Bloomfield Hills, Michigan._  
  
Isabelle opened the door to her bedroom a crack so that she could hear what her parents were saying instead of the indecipherable sound of shouting from downstairs. Her father had received the call at work, in the middle of a meeting, and her mother had had to cancel the art history courses that she taught at the local community college when the she’d gotten the message that her daughter’s school had called.

The long and short of it was that Isabelle Sayre had been kicked out of school for attacking – and some might say nearly killing -- a boy, a son of some bigshot at one of the Big Three auto companies that were headquartered in the Detroit area. And not kicked out for a few days, but kicked out for good.

Expelled.

It would be a black mark on her academic record. Isabelle was a teacher’s dream, a girl did well in her courses not just to earn the A, but because she honestly wanted to learn. It had been a both a dream and a nightmare for her teachers in elementary school, having a student who wanted to do the work but who acted out easily when bored. It had been her first-grade teacher who had harnessed her mind and her interest by presenting Isabelle with her grown daughter’s old books. “They ought to go to someone who will appreciate them,” Mrs. Nemitz had explained. “Somehow I think you will, Isabelle.”

Isabelle leaned closer to the door, where she could hear her mother coming upstairs and her father following behind.

“There’s a school in New York, Calvin,” Susanne said, “a very good school for students like Isabelle. Student who are gifted…”

“Gifted?” Isabelle heard her father snort. Isabelle heard a rustling of paper; he must have thrown aside the literature on the school that Susanne had given him, the same literature that Isabelle had seen when discussing the possibility of attending the school with her mother. “You know, I don’t understand what ‘gifted’ means in this case, Susanne. Her teachers said she was gifted, that’s why we pulled her out of public school and sent her to St. Thomas Aquinas. Next thing we know she tries to kill a boy...”

“He was bullying her. She was trying to protect herself, Calvin.”

Trying to protect herself from being coerced into doing something she hadn’t wanted to do. She hadn’t wanted to kiss Jason Milborn, even though he’d kept asking her to. He was an older boy, a sophomore over at St. Dominic’s. An older boy who had no business wanting to kiss younger girls. He hadn’t taken no for an answer, and had grabbed Isabelle so he could take what he wanted. But suddenly he’d started wheezing, unable to catch his breath. He’d choked out for help, but Isabelle had only been able to stand there, stunned, as Jason had fallen to his knees, his eyes bulging and his face turning blue. Something in the back of her mind had urged her to go to a teacher or a school security guard for help, but something stronger had stamped that out. Jason Milburn was a waste of air, so no more air would be wasted on him…

“She tried to kill that boy, Susanne. Do you know what that means? The Milburns have influence in this town. Do you know I could lose my job because of this?”

“You’re not going to lose your job, Calvin,” Susanne said, suddenly sounding tired.

“For fuck’s sake, Susanne, you don’t get it, do you? Our daughter is one of them! A freak! And you want to put her in a new school! What if something happens? What if she actually kills someone?”

“It’s not a school like the one she was at, Calvin. They offer structure. Structure is what Isabelle needs, and she’ll have a curriculum that’s at least going to challenge her. Have you seen her test scores, Calvin? She’s very smart when it comes to languages and reading comprehension. Think of what she could accomplish…”

“What she could accomplish won’t matter when people find out what she is. A mutant. A freak. Just like that Magneto or whatever his name is…”

Isabelle drew a trembling breath. So that was the word, wasn’t it? Mutant. She tried it out aloud. It sounded like a whispered threat, a viper coiled and hissing quietly before striking…  
“That’s not true. And you know it. Isabelle was only trying to protect herself. Maybe if you stopped worrying so much about yourself and your job and thought of our daughter, you’d see things for what they are. Isabelle needs you, Calvin…”

“You’re the one who wanted the baby, Susanne. The only reason why I married you was so she wouldn’t be born out of wedlock…”

“The only reason you married me,” Susanne spat out, “was so that your father wouldn’t cut you out of his will!”

Isabelle heard something that she’d never heard before: a few quick steps as her father crossed the room, the sound of an open palm making contact with skin, and her mother letting out a cry as she fell to the floor, as something that was glass shattered. She ran down the hallway to her parents’ room, where she saw her father standing over her mother, hands clenched in fists as he panted with rage, and her mother kneeling on the floor, stunned, clutching her cheek dazedly. Some of the glass knickknacks that Isabelle and her mother had brought back with them from France this summer lay scattered about in pieces. Her father’s aura was tinged with red and black. She gasped at the sight before she stepped into the room. He whirled to face her, and she steeled herself.

“Dad,” she heard herself say, “what did you just do?”

The red shifted, became deeper, then blended into the black. “Get out!” he ordered, pointing toward the doorway. “You don’t need to be in here! This doesn’t concern you, Isabelle!”

Isabelle remained rooted to the spot, lifting her chin defiantly. “No!” she exclaimed, her voice sounding strange and far away. Because she knew what he had done, and it wasn’t fair, not after her mother had just been diagnosed with the early stages of multiple sclerosis. “No, you don’t need to be here!”

And it came over her in a rush, the anger, crashing like a wave over the rocky beaches of Brittany where she and her mother spent their summer holidays.

“Isabelle!” her mother exclaimed, coming to her side. Isabelle felt her mother’s hand gripping her shoulder. “Isabelle, you need to stop! That’s enough!”

The red faded, and she suddenly felt weak. She wobbled a bit before she came completely to herself.

And then she saw what she had done.

And began to retch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't X-Men, Avengers, or any other associated Marvel properties. To be read in conjunction with the lovelty LostMyMarbles's "Change Your Mind, Change Your Life."
> 
> I've cast Lucy Griffiths, from BBC's Robin Hood, True Blood, and Preacher, as Isabelle. 
> 
> Please also note that I haven't used Marvel's interpretation of the Otherworld and fairies, but have formulated my own based on such works as the lais of Marie de France, Spenser's The Faerie Queen, Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, and various stories, myths, and folktales. I will do my best to provide background on these as they are covered in each chapter's end notes. Faerie and Otherworld are two completely different realms in this world, and that will be explained more thoroughly later. What you need to know now: Isabelle's mutation is an affinity to air, and Charles believes that her mutation has amplified whatever attributes her Fae blood may have given her. And as far as Charles or anyone else (like Magneto or Mr. Sinister) knows, Isabelle is the only existing mutant with Fae blood.

_New York State.  
September, 2004._

****

Isabelle rubbed her eyes as she deplaned. The time change was always an adjustment, five hours between both New York City time and French time. _Hello, jet lag,_ she thought to herself, glowering as she stepped out of the gate and into the airport. She saw Scott Summers seated in the waiting area, a scowl marring his face as he read whatever was on his phone screen. He texted something out quickly, then sent the message as Isabelle approached him.

 

“Great to see that you were waiting for me,” Isabelle said.  
  
  
Scott’s head snapped up, and Isabelle could see the red and orange in his aura. _Oh, not good._  
  
  
“I was waiting. I was just…keeping occupied,” he replied, shoving his phone into his pocket. “How was your flight?” He held out his hand to take her carry-on, now taking on the role of the obliging older brother that he always had.  
  
  
“I got wheels this time around. Pépé insisted that I have a set of bags with wheels because he doesn’t want me to injure my shoulder,” she said, pointing at her new carry-on. “And did you notice that it’s pink?”

 

“I saw that. Your grandpa knows how to get you to say yes to a new carry-on: just make sure it’s pink.” Scott stood up so that they could make their way to the luggage carousel. Isabelle heard his phone buzz with a text, but he ignored it.

 

Oh, something was up. And it wasn’t the normal quarrel that might sometimes pop up between Scott and Jean. This was a knock-down, drag-out fight.

 

“Maman is doing better,” Isabelle volunteered.

 

Scott turned his head when he heard that. “Glad to hear it, Bells. I know it was hard for you when she made the decision to stay in France indefinitely.”

  
Isabelle shrugged. “There was no way around it. She has better access to what she needs back in France. It’s just hard not seeing her every day.”

 

“I’m sure it is,” was all Scott said. “So which luggage set is yours? No, wait, let me guess – pink!” He pointed at the pair of light pink suitcases that made their way around the carousel. Isabelle thought she heard his phone buzz again with another message. What the hell was going on?

 

“We can take the shuttle out to the car,” Scott said as he took one suitcase. Isabelle set the carry-on on top of the other suitcase, leaning it against the handle as she wheeled it behind her. “How’s your shoulder been?”

 

Isabelle made a face. “It’s healing. Hank said that he’d take a look at it when I got back, and then maybe I could start back at fencing.”

 

“ _Maybe_ ,” Scott reminded her, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Maybe doesn’t mean you’ll be back at it tomorrow afternoon.”

 

Isabelle tossed her head defiantly. “I don’t know who is worse about it – you or Maman. ‘Dr. McCoy said no practicing while you were here. How many times must I tell you, Isabelle?’” She did a perfect imitation of her mother’s Breton French accent. “Between her and my aunts and Mémé and Yseult, I was reminded of it daily!”  
  
  
“Sounds like they did a good job while you were in France,” Scott remarked, a smile crossing his lips. They got on the shuttle to the parking lot. Scott’s smile faded as he took out his phone and checked his messages. Isabelle craned her neck to see the contents, catching the latest message from Jean: _Don’t even get started on that._

 

“Can we get a burger on the way home?” Isabelle said suddenly. “I’m ravenous.”

 

“You can get whatever you want, Bells. We’ll stop at the burger joint on the way to the school,” he muttered.  
  


Isabelle saw his aura change again. “Your treat?”

 

“Whatever you want, Bells,” he muttered as he punched a quick message back to Jean.  
  
  
  
“Instead of a burger, I’d like a filet mignon,” Isabelle said.

 

“We’ll stop and get whatever you want, Bells.”

 

“You’re paying?”

 

That made him stop. He put down his phone and turned to her. “No, I’m not. Smartass.” He elbowed her in the ribs, chuckling.

 

“So where’s Jean?” Isabelle queried. “I thought she was going to be here, too.”

 

Scott shrugged, his lips tightening. “There was a change of plans. She got caught up helping one of our new recruits.”

 

“New recruit?” Isabelle echoed. She’d been explicitly told by Professor Xavier to remain in France during the Krakoa incident, the reasoning being very clear: _You’re not ready, Isabelle. Not with a healing shoulder injury._ “Do tell.”

 

“It’s better if you meet him first.” Scott’s voice took on an edge, and Isabelle gasped at the green that tinged his aura now.

 

“You don’t like him, do you?” she said suddenly.

 

Scott glanced over at her, glaring at her behind the red lenses of his glasses. “How’d you guess?”

 

Isabelle chewed on her lower lip as the shuttle stopped in the lot where Scott had parked his Honda Civic. She helped him put her luggage in the trunk, then got into the car. She waited until they were on the road toward Westchester to speak.

 

“He can’t be that bad, Scott.”

 

Scott snickered. “Trust me, Bells, he is. Asshole of the year.”

 

“If he was truly such an asshole, Scott, then Professor Xavier wouldn’t have taken him in,” Isabelle said matter-of-factly, reaching into her purse for her phone so she could text her mother that she had landed safely and was on her way back to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.

 

“Like I said, you haven’t met him yet.”

 

“I’m just trying to be objective. And to get _you_ to be more objective, too.” She sat back in her seat and stared out the window as Scott drove through the dark streets of Salem Center. She hasn’t been ready to come back to New York, not yet, anyhow. The sweet, golden fall days had just descended on Brittany, and the holiday crowds had left to resume their normal lives in the city. The beaches were quiet at least. In the village of St.-Tremeur-sur-Mur, where Isabelle’s mother had grown up, things would grow quieter. And at the family château, where Isabelle had spent her summers during much of her childhood, the apples would be coming in. Mémé would be giving the tours to schoolchildren and teachers visiting the château for a day trip, and Pépé and Aunt Delphine would spend the mornings going over the books of the orchard and the cider company before Pépé went into the village for his afternoon game of pétanque. And if Maman was having a good day, she would be painting, drawing, or working on her pottery. And if Isabelle had remained in France, she would dutifully do her reading and homework assignments and email them to her teachers at the Xavier School for their review.

 

They stopped at one of the local diners close to the school to get Isabelle a bacon cheeseburger with mayo, tomato, and extra pickles and steak fries and a vanilla milkshake. Once they were on the road again, she felt Scott’s eyes on her, and she turned to look at him. “What is it?” she demanded.

 

He shrugged, slightly, then turned his attention back to the road. “I’m just glad you weren’t there, Bells. On Krakoa. It was really ugly.”

 

“I’m sorry it was so ugly, Scott,” Isabelle said. Pépé and Mémé had all too often told her stories of the ill effects of war, from their childhoods during World War II to Pépé’s time in the Algerian War.

 

“The professor was right when he said you weren’t ready. Good thing you’d decided to showboat in the Danger Room before leaving, huh?”

 

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t showboating,” she huffed.

 

“You were showboating. And you took a great fall and dislocated your shoulder,” Scott teased.

 

“It wasn’t funny. It hurt like hell,” Isabelle muttered, pouting. She hated it when Scott teased her about something, and when he was _right_ about it. Maybe she _had_ been showboating, parrying then counterattacking, then dissipating and reappearing when the robotic opponent had feinted. The idea had jumped into her head to try a cross between a flèche and a flunge, but she had misjudged her distance and slipped from the mezzanine, landing on her right shoulder. The strange popping sound and the pain had occurred simultaneously, as had her shriek. Hank McCoy, the resident doctor, had been able to pop her shoulder back into place, but not without having to contend with her screaming. Bobby Drake had told her they could hear her all the way down the hallway.

 

“At least Hank was here. I wouldn’t have wanted to take you to the emergency room with that,” Scott said.

 

“Oh, it would’ve been awful,” Isabelle said, shuddering at the thought. “Scott, I know I was showboating. But I _am_ going to figure out how to perfect that move. I’ll just have to not do it during Danger Room drill.”

 

“At least you learned from it.”

 

“Oh, I _have_ learned from it. It was a very painful mistake,” Isabelle assured him. She gasped when the first bars of one of her favorite songs came on the radio, then turned up the volume. Scott groaned when he recognized it.

 

“Not _this_ song,” he griped.

 

“Oh, _yes,_ this song!” Isabelle exclaimed. She tapped her feet in time to the beat, then sang out, “If I teach you, then I’ll have to charge!”

 

The song came to an end as Scott pulled into the driveway. Once he had parked the car in the garage, Scott turned off the car, then went to get one of Isabelle’s suitcases out of the trunk. Isabelle went to get her carry-on, then followed Scott into the mansion, humming the chorus to _Milkshake_ under her breath.

 

“Thanks to you, I have that stupid song in my head,” Scott told her as he set her suitcase down.

 

Bobby Drake entered the kitchen, his brow wrinkled curiously. “Which song?” he asked. His face brightened when he saw Isabelle. “Heya, Bells! You’re back!”

 

“In the flesh,” she riposted, setting her carryout bag on the kitchen table. “And the song in question has to do with milkshakes. ‘My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.’ This one happens to be vanilla.”

 

“You went to Bogie’s and didn’t tell me?” Bobby’s face fell as Isabelle opened up the box with her dinner.

 

“It was a stop along the way. I was hungry.”

 

“The word you used was ravenous. Hey, Bobby, make yourself useful. There’s a second suitcase for you to bring in,” Scott said, tossing the car keys at him.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby grumbled, tossing Isabelle a sullen look as he made his way out to the garage. Isabelle made a mental note to let him have some of her chocolate when the package from her mother arrived next week. Chocolate, after all, cured all ills.

 

“Let me know when you’re done eating, and I’ll take you to meet the new recruits,” Scott said, going to the refrigerator for a bottled water, grabbing one for Isabelle, too. He sat down in front of her. Isabelle saw the orange and green flare up in his aura again.

 

“You really want to sit here and watch me eat my burger?”

 

“Sit here, talk. Ask you how everyone is and what you did in France.”

 

“I did pretty much the same thing. Visited with my mother, my grandparents, my aunts, and my cousins, and some extended family, went to the beach, and did the homework that Hank and Professor Xavier assigned me. Helped out a little bit with the orchard. Nothing new.” She took a bite of her burger and chewed thoughtfully. “Tante Delphine is sending some cider and wine, too. I thought you might be interested.”

 

“Great. And you know the rule. Only if you drink it here.” Scott glanced over his shoulder. Isabelle could see the red blend in with the other colors, and the gray that found its way in the spots in between.

 

What the hell was up with him? Were things worse than he was letting on?

 

She heard the door to the garage open again. She heard heavy footsteps in the hallway and saw a shadow as someone stopped in front of the threshold to the kitchen, then continued on. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of cigar smoke that wafted into the kitchen. Scott was watching whoever it was, his face twisted into an expression of disgust, the red in his aura growing darker.

 

“Who was that?” she said.

 

Scott turned to her. “That,” he said, “is the asshole I was telling you about.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French glossary: 
> 
> Meme: Grandma
> 
> Pepe: Grandpa
> 
> petanque: a lawn game similar to boules
> 
> Note: St.-Tremeur-sur-Mer and the Chateau de Brignonen are both fictional locations. The village is located close to St. Malo, almost right on France's Emerald Coast, in the department Ille-et-Vilaine. Both the town of Dinard and the Foret de Paimpont, which is the location of the Fae kingdom of Broceliande in this story, are within a short driving distance. If needed, I can provide information on the story of Saints Tryphine and Tremeur, which plays an important part in the village's name.
> 
> And one thing to keep in mind is that Isabelle's world is actually very small, consisting of the school and its surroundings in the United States and the general area surrounding the chateau and village in France. Isabelle WAS born in the United States, but in her mind, because she also has French citizenship and was raised by a French mother, she is French. If she was watching soccer or the Olympics, she would be cheering for France, not the U.S.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men, Avengers, or any other associated properties, but all original characters are mine. This is a prequel to "All This and Heaven Too." We know where Logan and Isabelle are, but how did they get there? This is in the same universe as the lovely LostMyMarbles's "Change Your Mind Change Your Life," a romance between Darcy Lewis and Dr. Victor Von Doom, so please read it! It's quite good!

After she was done with her dinner, Scott and Bobby helped her take her suitcases and her carry-on bag up to her room. It was a joy to be back here, despite the aching emptiness that she got whenever she thought of home. This would be another school year, her senior courses and some college courses that she had dually enrolled in at ESU Westchester, and the senior thesis that Henry McCoy had insisted she complete. “You’re very intelligent, Isabelle,” he had told her before she had left for Brittany for the summer. “I’m sure I’ll be impressed by whatever it is you write.”

 

She had chosen her topic carefully, the theme of women and fear of imprisonment in English gothic and sensation lit, which, she was sure, Hank would be very interested in reading about.

 

“Bells!” she heard Lorna Dane exclaim. “I’m so glad you’re back!” Lorna sauntered into Isabelle’s bedroom, coming over to hug her. “How was Brittany?”

 

“Oh, you know, the same old thing,” Isabelle mustered, shrugging.

 

“Well, we need to get some one-on-one time tomorrow. You know, so we can catch up. A lot has happened,” Lorna said.

 

Isabelle turned to her, cocking her head. “A lot?” she said, her eyes fixing on Lorna’s aura. So much red and pink and orange, like a sunset, Isabelle thought. “Can you give me a hint?”

 

Lorna came to sit on the edge of Isabelle’s bed, toying with one of the ruffles on the light pink comforter. “You just need to know that _a lot_ has happened for right now. Come on downstairs. Jean’s looking for you.”

 

Isabelle stared at Lorna incredulously for a moment, then followed her out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the staircase. Oh, Lorna was hiding _something_ , that much Isabelle could tell. But she’d really have to concentrate to read more deeply, and she hadn’t the time nor the inclination right now.

 

“Is your shoulder better?” Lorna asked her.

 

Isabelle gave an exasperated huff, rolling her eyes. “Please don’t ask me that. Scott already did, then proceeded to lecture me about it. After he teased me.”

 

“Then I won’t lecture you about it. That’s Professor Xavier’s job,” Lorna quipped.

 

“And he already lectured me about it enough,” Isabelle said. _Focus,_ she told herself as she felt the chilly shivers run up her spine. She drew a deep breath as she descended the wooden staircase. Here she stopped for a moment, her fingers running over the smooth, polished oak.

 

 _Focus. Breathe. Ground yourself._ The mantra that Professor Xavier had taught her when she’d first come here. When sometimes she would become so overwhelmed that she would freeze, like a deer in the headlights, the visions of what might be playing in her mind’s eye, a flash that would come and go in an eyeblink, a small that would fill her nostrils and that she couldn’t quite place, a sound that she couldn’t determine the source of, sometimes even a taste of something, a momentary flickering on her tongue… and then… gone…

 

“You okay, Bells?” Lorna called out, stopping on the landing and looking up at her.

 

Isabelle plastered on a smile, nodding. “I’m fine. I’m coming right down.”

 

She met Lorna at the bottom of the staircase and the two continued on to one of the rec rooms, where the news blared from the television.

 

And it wasn’t any kind of news. It was one of the more conservative news outlets, the Highland News Network. Isabelle avoided the twenty-four-hour news cycle for the most part; she found it to be too depressing, and sometimes it even set her intuition haywire. And she especially despised the Highland News Network, which was very blatant when it came to its hatred of mutants and its anti-mutant propaganda.

 

“Will you turn that off already?” she heard Scott’s brother, Alex, ask. “The football game’s on. And I can’t stand Calvin Sayre.”

 

 _Calvin Sayre._ Isabelle felt her stomach drop.

 

“Sure. Just a minute.” Warren picked up the remote control and changed the channel, then set it back down as Lorna and Isabelle walked in. Lorna took her place beside Alex on the sectional, and Warren stood up as Isabelle came closer to his side of the sectional.

 

“How’s my favorite French girl?” Warren asked her, pulling her into an expensive-cologne-scented hug.

 

“Fine,” Isabelle managed when she found her voice again. “Just a little jetlagged.”

 

“Oh, you’ll live, though,” Warren teased. “You got a nice tan while you were… Holy shit, Bells, what’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

 

She stepped away from him, trying to keep her hands from trembling. _A ghost. How apt,_ she thought, almost laughing hysterically. She propelled herself toward the couch and took a seat when Jean entered the room with a tall, dark-skinned woman. Jean’s green eyes widened at Isabelle’s state of panic.

 

“Come on, Bells,” she said, hurrying to her side and taking her hand. “Let’s go outside. You haven’t met Ororo yet, have you?

 

Isabelle swallowed, shaking her head. “No,” she replied, glancing at the other woman, whose delicately featured face was fraught with concern.

 

“I’ll introduce you two. Come on.” Jean took Isabelle’s hand and whisked her through the hallways to what used to be the morning room, then through the French doors to the porch. Jean helped Isabelle onto one of the benches, while the woman named Ororo took a seat beside her.

 

“Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Like we talked about,” Jean said.

 

Isabelle breathed in deeply though her nose, then exhaled through her mouth, slowly, just as instructed. Isabelle felt someone take her hand into their cool one. She turned her head to see that Ororo was holding her hand.

 

“That is very good,” Ororo told her gently, patting her hand. “Just like Jean is saying.”

 

Once Isabelle had collected herself, Jean sat down on the other side of her, leaning forward so that she was addressing both her and Ororo. “You okay?” she asked Isabelle.

 

Isabelle nodded, taking in another gulp of chill night air. “I miss the taste of the sea,” she said, rather incongruously. “I – I want to go back to France.” _And never have to see that my piece-of-shit dad got a show._

 

“He got a show,” she gulped out. “I didn’t think he’d get a show…”

 

Jean sighed, putting an arm around Isabelle’s shoulders. “We wanted to tell you. Professor Xavier wanted to tell you. Tomorrow, after you’d rested…”

 

Isabelle wiped a few tears from her eyes. “I have to tell Maman.”

 

“Of course you can, Bells, but not tonight,” Jean leaned her head against Isabelle’s. Isabelle felt a slight skimming of her surface thoughts. Jean let out a little gasp, then sighed, pulling Isabelle closer to her. “I know you worry about how it’ll affect your mother. But you can’t help her if you’re a mess over it. So let’s just concentrate on you right now, okay? Your mom has plenty of support around her right now.”

 

Isabelle nodded. “Okay,” she choked out, though she didn’t know why she was crying.

 

“Bells,” Jean said softly, “I really want you to meet Ororo Munroe, one of our new recruits. Ororo, this is our Isabelle.” The way Jean said “our Isabelle” made her feel a little better.

 

Ororo offered Isabelle a smile. “It is wonderful to finally meet you,” she said. “Jean has told me all about you. All good things.”

 

“All good things,” Jean assured Isabelle.

 

Isabelle turned to Ororo with a shy smile. “It’s great to meet you,” she said. “I… I’m sorry about…”

 

Ororo laughed. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” she told Isabelle, taking her hand and squeezing it.

 

“There are other new recruits I’d like to introduce you to,” Jean said to Isabelle, “but not tonight. Tomorrow. You look exhausted.”

 

Isabelle opened her mouth to reply, but the stench of cigar smoke wafted through the air again, and she made a face. A short, stocky figure cut its way across the lawn. Isabelle squinted to see the look of concern on the craggy face of the man who now stood in front of them. His aura was a strange mélange of colors that she’d never seen before in an aura: brown, gray, a little bit of blue and green and even some orages and reds located within the mess.

 

“Everything okay?” he asked them, though his gaze was fixed on Jean. Isabelle saw the red and pink that tinged his aura even more, made it brighter, though she bit her lip and remained quiet.

 

Jean looked up at the man who had just spoken, then greeted him with a gentle smile and pinkening cheeks. “Everything is fine,” she said. “Bells just needed a moment. But she’s fine now.” Jean glanced at her and stroked her hair. “Isabelle, this is another of our new members, Logan. Logan, this is Isabelle, the student I was telling you about earlier.”

 

Isabelle felt his eyes on her, and she could have sworn he sniffed at the air. Nonetheless, she straightened. “I think I saw you walk in…”

 

He cocked his head, his thick brows drawing together for a moment. “You were eatin’ dinner,” he said, as though that was the explanation of why he hadn’t come into the kitchen so Scott could introduce them. He lifted his lit cigar to his mouth, clenching it between his teeth while he took a drag from it. He removed it from his mouth again, nodding at her. “Nice meetin’ you.”

 

“Likewise,” Isabelle replied. She squinted as she saw his aura shift again. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the blues and greens of Ororo’s aura, bordered with pink and red, but then there was Jean’s, with pink and red bordering the normal colors.

 

Ororo she could understand. But _Jean?_

 

What the heck was going on here?

 

The man named Logan looked at her again, his mouth setting into a thin line as he furrowed his brow. “I’ll be seein’ you around then, Isabelle. An’ you an’ me, we have a session tomorrow mornin’, right, Jeannie?”

 

Jean nodded. “Yeah, we do. Ten AM. Be there or your name is mud.”

 

Isabelle thought she saw the corners of Logan’s mouth lift into a slight smile. “Fair enough.” The smile disappeared, and he turned away. Before he left, he turned toward them. “G’night,” he said.

 

The three of them each wished him good night. He made his way toward the front of the mansion, the lit end of the cigar the only trace of him that they could see in the darkness.

 

                                                          ******

 

Isabelle excused herself and left Jean and Ororo a few minutes later, heading back into the mansion. She went into the kitchen for a bottle of Orangina, then made her way upstairs and through the halls to Professor Xavier’s bedroom. She knocked on the door, and he called for her to come in. When Isabelle entered, he was dressed for bed, seated in his wheelchair and watching television. Isabelle felt her gorge rise when she saw the title of the show he was watching come back on after the commercial: _On Point with Calvin Sayre._ Suddenly he turned it off, turning to Isabelle.

 

“Hello, Isabelle. I thought you’d find your way up here soon.” He set aside the remote control as she came to his side. She felt a soft skimming of her surface thoughts, and he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before speaking. “I take it Jean told you?” he said at length.

 

Isabelle nodded, chewing on her lower lip. “She did.” She opened her Orangina, taking a small sip before screwing the cap back on.

 

He nodded, his face weary. “I’m sorry, Isabelle. I should have told you.” He held out his hand. She took it, and once she did, her heartbeat slowed down, and calm washed over her. “I wanted to protect you,” he explained.

“I know you did. And if I’d known, I would’ve tried to protect my mother. It’s what I’ve always done.” _Clean up the house, keep it neat as a pin, have a tidy appearance, keep smiling, all so that Daddy wouldn’t start yelling and throwing things and hitting._ She had spent her entire childhood walking on eggshells, trying to protect her mother, until her father had finally left after ending up in the hospital.

 

_When you tried to kill him._

 

“Isabelle, you were a child,” Charles told her softly. “Do you hear me? _A child._ You were only trying to protect your mother.”

 

 _Protect._ _And who’s going to protect you, Isabelle?_ The question that Charles had asked when she had first come to the school. She had squirmed in her seat, staring at her bitten-down nails and turning the question over and over in her head.

 

_I don’t know._

_You’ll be protected as long as you’re at this school, Isabelle. Your mother will have nothing to worry about. Here… here you can be safe, and no one will hurt you. You can be the girl you should have been allowed to be…_

 

And she _had_ been. And Professor Xavier had done his best to fill that gap for her, to be the father that her own father couldn’t be.

 

“Tell me about France,” he said presently, leading her over to the sofa so that she could sit down. “Do you have photographs?”

 

“Oh, I took so many! I want to go get them developed tomorrow…”

 

“When you get them developed, you’ll have to show them to me.” He beamed at her. “And the other reason for your trip? Were you able to get that accomplished?”

 

She nodded, sipping her Orangina again. “My uncle is sending his representative so he can negotiate with you. Later this week. Thursday, at noon, our time. At the place you agreed on.”

 

Charles’s eyes widened slightly, and the indigo and blue that made up most of his aura lightened with the silver that peeked through. “Really? Well, that is much earlier than I expected.”

 

“He said that he understands the importance of what you’re asking. The specifics might be difficult to work out, but he’ll name his terms, and expects you name yours. He thinks that you can both come to an agreement.”

 

Charles smiled, his blue eyes softening. “Tell him – your uncle – that I’d be more than happy to receive his representative at the appointed time. I’ll have my driver take us into the city that day.”

 

“I’ll let him know,” Isabelle replied. She got up and leaned over to hug the Professor. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

 

“Good night, Isabelle. Remember that we’re going to have Hank look at your shoulder tomorrow, and after that, I want to introduce you to the rest of the new members.”

 

“That’s why I’m going to bed.” She waved at him once she reached the door. “Good night.”

 

On her way to her bedroom, she felt the slight clenching return to her chest.

 

 _Maman._ She would have to tell her mother tomorrow, or at least talk to Mémé about it, because Mémé was really the best person to break it to her. It would be difficult, yes, but it would work out in the end: her mother would see an increase in the spousal support payments as had been stipulated in the divorce settlement. And it wasn’t like the press would find her. She had taken her mother’s maiden name last year, as a sort of fuck-you to her father. Not that he would have cared. Because he never had.

 

_But why do I still feel the need to protect Maman from you?_

 

She closed her bedroom door behind her. Once she had put on her pajamas and washed her face and brushed her teeth, she collapsed onto her bed, feeling exhausted. Emotionally drained.

 

She shouldn’t have listened to her mother.

 

She should have killed her father when she’d had the opportunity.

 

 

  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snaps to the lovely LostMyMarbles for her assistance with working out a major plot point for this chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> And so who -- or what -- do you think Charles is negotiating with, and who do you think their representative is? And where in NYC do you think they are going to meet?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men, Avengers, or any other associated properties, but all original characters are mine. This is a prequel to "All This and Heaven Too." We know where Logan and Isabelle are, but how did they get there? This is in the same universe as the lovely LostMyMarbles's "Change Your Mind Change Your Life," a romance between Darcy Lewis and Dr. Victor Von Doom, so please read it! It's quite good!
> 
> There is also a playlist for both The Whole of the Moon. I will link this at a later date.

Logan had been on the fence about staying at Charles Xavier’s school, but now he was leaning more toward leaving than staying.

 

There were some people he really liked here. The professor himself was okay, seemed like a decent guy, if not a little too wrapped up in his ideals. He liked two of the members who had been recruited with him: Piotr Rasputin, or Colossus, and Kurt Wagner, or Nightcrawler. Ororo Munroe, or Storm, wasn’t bad, either. The doctor was nice enough, but as a rule, he didn’t like doctors. The rich guy wasn’t that bad, either. The ice cube was a pain in the ass. The Summers brothers – both of them – were assholes.

 

The person he really liked, though, was the redheaded telepath who had been working with him over the past few months. Not only was she beautiful, but she was kind. She really wanted to help him.

 

Kindness and sincerity were things he hadn’t experienced much of in the last few years. And that they were coming from someone like her … he _liked_ it. When she walked into a room, it became a thousand times brighter. Because of her, he was beginning to believe in people again, when he hadn’t had a reason to in so long.

 

He turned the corner of the hallway toward the room where they were having their session, but stopped when he detected the scent of someone else in the room with her and heard the imperious tone of whom he assumed to be the French girl.

 

“Don’t think you can _hide_ things from me, Jean, because you can’t! I see your colors, I see Scott’s colors, and I can see this Logan’s colors…”

 

“You just _see_ things, Isabelle. It doesn’t mean that they’re your business. Just like what goes on between me and Scott is none of your business.”  


“You mean you and Scott and Logan.”

 

The French girl, the one who had just come home last night. The one who’d wolfed down a burger and fries while saying she was _ravenous_ and then who’d been coming down from a panic attack when he had happened upon her, Jean, and Ororo outside.

 

That girl had smelled _off._  
  


Logan had run into all kinds of weird people and creatures – from what he could remember – and the scent coming from her was a familiar one. Familiar, but different. Like the one he had smelled on the young Englishman who’d approached him in Stratford while he was on a job during theater season. The young Englishman who’d seemed to recognize him, and had asked him how he was. When Logan hadn’t known who he was – and had told him so, punctuating it with a pointed _bub_ at the end – the young man had simply shrugged and sighed, “Ah, ‘tis a pity! It seems I was mistaken! I’m off to the performance of _Death of a Salesman._ Do enjoy the plays! I hear this year’s performance of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ is an excellent one!”

 

He hadn’t stayed for the play.

 

Jean heaved a sigh of frustration. “Isabelle, what part of _none of your business_ don’t you _get_?”

 

He entered the room to find the two young women arguing, Jean standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at Isabelle, and Isabelle just a few feet away with her arms folded across her chest and her back to him.

 

“I guess he's attractive if you like Steve McQueen types, but Jean, he  _smokes._ And it  _stinks._ And really, it’s _very_ disgusting," she said. Jean clapped her hand over her mouth when she saw him, her eyes dancing with merriment.

 

Isabelle seemed to have caught on to the joke. Slowly, she turned to see him behind her, and her expression changed from one of disdain to one of complete embarrassment.

 

“Steve McQueen types, huh?” he said.

 

She glanced at Jean, and then him again. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” she mustered.

 

“Even if I wasn’t supposed to’ve heard it, I still woulda heard it.” He pointed at his ears. “Keen senses.”

 

“Not only keen,” Jean said to Isabelle. “ _Enhanced_.”

 

Isabelle nodded, her eyes not leaving Logan. She was giving him the French stare-down, narrowing her eyes and puckering her lips and adopting a bored expression as she sized him up, as though he was somehow the interloper when she was the one holding Jean up from his appointment. If Jean hadn’t been there, he would have started laughing at her.

 

“Don’t worry, Bells,” he said, using the nickname that the other X-Men seemed to have bestowed upon her, “I’ve been called worse. It ain’t a bad thing to be compared to Steve McQueen.”

 

She glared at him even more, maybe for using her nickname. After a moment, she turned to Jean abruptly. “I should go.”

 

“Yes,” Jean said, her tone cool, “you should. We’ll have a chat later.”

 

Isabelle nodded briskly, then made her way to the door. Logan moved aside for her. She paused for a moment to star daggers at him with a pair of greenish blue eyes, then gave a very French huff and breezed out of the room.

 

“I’m sorry about her,” Jean said, coming to his side. “She’s… she’s young. I’ll talk to her. Or the Professor will. We’re… close. She was only fourteen when she came to the school. Her parents were going through a nasty divorce, and she’d been taking care of her mother, who’s got some serious health issues. Sometimes she’s too smart for her own good.”

 

“Thinks she knows it all?” he supplied.

 

She laughed. “Something like that.”

 

“Nothing I can’t handle.” They went to the pair of chairs beside the window that overlooked the manicured lawns and gardens of the Xavier estate.

 

“She’ll come around, eventually.” Jean gestured him for him to sit down in the chair across from the one she took. “She’s really a very sweet girl. Once you get to know her.”

 

“I bet she is. Just got one question for you about her, though,” he said, pouring himself some coffee from the carafe Jean had set out.

 

Jean very gracefully swept a lock of bright red hair over her shoulder. “Sure. Ask anything.”

 

“Just what _is_ she?”

 

Jean blanched a bit. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Isabelle, Bells, whatever you call her. She smells off. Weird.” He looked up at Jean. “Like she ain’t all human.”

 

“Oh, she’s human,” Jean said. “I can definitely tell you she’s human, and as much a mutant as you and I are. But that’s something you should ask Professor Xavier about.” She reached for her pen and pad of paper, then looked up at him with a slight smile on her face. “Now. How about we begin today’s session?”

 

He felt her gently nudging at the edges of his mind, and he returned her smile. “I was gonna say the same thing,” he answered. And he could have sworn that her cheeks colored even more as she looked back down at her pad of paper.

 

                                                               ******

  
“Your shoulder is healing very nicely,” Dr. Henry P. McCoy said to Isabelle once he had viewed the imaging taken earlier that morning. “You’ll be able to go back to practicing in about a week or so.”

 

“Oh, good!” Isabelle exclaimed. “When?”

 

“We’ll keep track of it. You’ve been doing the exercises I assigned you, so that has definitely sped up your recovery. Once I’ve determined that everything is satisfactory, I’ll advise you when you can return to practicing.”

 

Isabelle sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “I thought it would be sooner.”

 

“Even I can’t move mountains, Isabelle, as much as I’d like to.” He smiled down at her. “When you can return to practicing, I think you should do it with Kurt Wagner, one of the new mutants that Professor Xavier recruited. His skill is quite remarkable. One would hardly believe that he’s had no formal training.”

-

“No formal training?” Isabelle’s eyebrow rose incredulously.

 

“Believe it or not, he hasn’t set a foot in the fencing club like you have. I think you’ll like him very much. He isn’t much older than you are. Which reminds me: have you had any trouble finding sources for your thesis?”

 

“No. I’m going with _The Monk_ , by Matthew Lewis, Collins’s _The Woman in White,_ and _Lady Audley’s Secret._ Maybe a bit of _Jane Eyre_ and _Wide Sargasso Sea_ , and Leroux’s _Phantom of the Opera_ , and _Fingersmith_. And _Alias_ _Grace_ by Margaret Atwood.”

 

Hank frowned. “Just how long of a thesis did you intend on writing?”

 

She inclined her head, lifting a corner of her mouth into a half-smile. “You said that I ought to impress you,” she reminded him.

 

“May I remind you, Isabelle, that there’s an immense difference between impressing me and writing a doctoral-length thesis? Not that you aren’t capable of it.” He walked her to the door of the medical unit. Hank had been Isabelle’s tutor in most of her courses from the time she had started at the school. He was one of the kindest, most patient men Isabelle had ever met. She’d found his intelligence to be imposing, but his tall, muscular frame hadn’t given her pause at all. There were far worse people who masked their true selves under well-styled hair, immaculately tailored suits, and perfect smiles of capped teeth.

 

“It won’t be doctoral-length,” she promised as he led her down to the control room above Danger Room so that she could meet the remaining new recruits, who were practicing that morning. She counted four of them, all men, the light of whose auras made her dizzy as she watched them.

 

“I’ll introduce you to the rest of them once their drill has finished,” he told her, his tone suddenly clipped.

 

Isabelle glanced at him, noticing the shifting of his aura and the yellow and orange that overtook it, and the dirty gray overlay that clouded everything. “Hank,” she mustered, “was… was it really that horrible?”

 

“Was what horrible, Isabelle?” His normally mellifluous voice was flat.

 

“Krakoa.”

 

He turned to look at her, his eyes suddenly sad. “Isabelle, I’ll answer your question once, but after I do, you’re not to ask it again. Is that clear?”

 

She nodded, her face growing serious. “I won’t ask again, Hank. I promise.”

 

“And you’ll keep your promise, I know that.” He took a seat in one of the chairs close to the reinforced window overlooking room, and Isabelle followed suit. “Suffice it to say, it was terrible. I’m relieved that Professor Xavier doesn’t think you’re ready yet. You – you might not have survived, the wisp of a thing that you are.”

 

She rolled her eyes, tapping her fingernails on the arm of her chair. “I’m not _that_ small, Hank. I can still hold my own.”

 

“Of course you can. Still, I’m glad you weren’t there.” He patted her hand, then stood up to lead her downstairs so that she could meet the other four recruits once they had finished their session.

 

They had all come from different parts of the world: Sean Cassidy, or Banshee, from Ireland; John Proudstar, or Thunderbird, from Arizona; Kurt Wagner, or Nightcrawler, from Germany; and Piotr Rasputin, or Colossus from Russia. They all seemed to be friendly enough, but she had to admit that she found Kurt and Piotr, who were closer to her in age, to be the friendliest. And…

 

“You’re using one of my foils,” Isabelle said to Kurt, who cast a perplexed glance at the foil in his hand.

 

“Only to practice with,” he said deferentially, offering the foil as though it was some precious thing. His German accent made the scene all the more comical in her mind, as though he was some musketeer who had just surrendered to the opposite side. “Forgive me, fraulein. I will purchase my own straightaway.”

This spurred a laugh from John, who clapped a large hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “I think you’re overreacting, Kurt. She doesn’t seem too mad at you.”

 

“Oh, I’m _not_ ,” Isabelle insisted. “You can use it until you find a foil that works for you. I have plenty. It’s nothing, really.” She wondered if word of her exchange with Jean about Logan this morning had gotten to them. Did they really think that she was a little brat who refused to share her toys?

 

Kurt’s face brightened, his yellow eyes meeting hers. “ _Danke_. You are most kind,” he said to her.

 

Isabelle heard a snort of laughter behind her, and she turned to see Lorna enter the room. “What’s this? Isabelle -- being most kind? Have pigs learned to fly?” She came to Isabelle, then placed an arm around her shoulders.

 

Isabelle gave a very French huff. “Ignore her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’m nice all the time,” she jibed, playfully elbowing Lorna.

 

“Today she is. Come on, I’m taking you out to lunch. I want to see the pictures you took! You said they were amazing!” Lorna exclaimed as she led Isabelle out of the room. Isabelle managed a half-hearted wave good-bye before leaving.

 

                                                                 ******

 

“So where’s this again?” Lorna said, staring at a page of one of the photo albums Isabelle had brought with her to the diner around the corner.

 

“That’s the beach at Dinard. And this page, this is Carnac. Pépé and I went. Maman was having a bad day that day, so she and Mémé went to the beach close to the château…”

 

“Which is gorgeous. So St.-Tremeur-sur-Mer has its own little private beach?”

 

“More or less. It’s really just a beach the locals visit, nothing like the beaches at Dinard or Trouville.”

 

“It’s still gorgeous,” Lorna sighed. “I wish I could’ve gone.”

 

“You can come next year,” Isabelle said. “Mémé and Pépé would love to have you… and Maman would love it if you came.”

 

Lorna closed the photo album, setting it aside. “Oh, Bells,” she said. “Bells, I don’t think I’ll be able to go next year. The thing is, we’re leaving. Alex and I. We both got accepted to grad school.”

 

Isabelle felt her stomach drop. _“Oh,”_ she said, reaching for her glass of soda so she could sip it through the straw.

 

“We’ve been thinking about it for awhile, and it all came together right before we left for Krakoa. And… you _know_ how things are with Bobby.”

 

“I know,” Isabelle replied. “All too well.” She deliberately ignored the changing of colors in Lorna’s aura.

 

“Oh, good!” Lorna exclaimed, sounding like a burden had just been lifted from her shoulders. “Then you get it. I’m so glad you get it, Bells. We… we’re just ready to move on. They’re changes. But good changes.”

 

Isabelle smiled and nodded. “I’m happy for you and Alex.” _Even though I hate changes._ “But… we’ll still talk, won’t we?”

 

“Oh, of course, Bells. Always. That’s one thing that won’t change. We’ll always be friends, you and I,” Lorna said, taking her hand.

 

But Isabelle wasn’t so sure about that. Because when Lorna said it, a chill of dread shot up and down her spine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who have been reading! 
> 
> One thing to remember is that at this time, Isabelle is only 17 years old and Charles has made some mistakes when it comes to her. She's a mutant with Fae lineage, so this is a whole new ballgame for Charles because these are two different parts of her still trying to balance themselves out, so the energy within is very chaotic. It will be addressed very shortly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men, Avengers, or any other Marvel creations, but all original characters are mine. To be read in conjunction with "Change Your Mind, Change Your Life," by the lovely LostMyMarbles, since they occur within the same world, so to speak.
> 
> If you guessed that an older Vincent Price was cast as Ragoczi, you were correct! Ragoczi will take Isabelle under his wing and act as her tutor later on. This is Charles's first time dealing with a Fae/mutant human hybrid, so this is completely new territory for him. He's doing the best he can, but the energy within Isabelle is very chaotic. Ragoczi can better give Isabelle the individualized attention she needs during a gap year on Muir Island. And while Charles is more indulgent of Isabelle, Moira MacTaggert is not.

“She should know better than that,” Jean said, once she had finished telling Charles about her quarrel with Isabelle that morning. “At least, we _taught_ her to be better than that.”

 

Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll discuss it with her,” he promised.

 

“Please do. I think she honestly believes she knows more than the rest of us,” Jean complained.

 

Charles frowned. Jean was right about that, in some respects. They had all more or less treated Isabelle as one of their peers, even though she was still just a teenager and had just gotten her driver’s license last year. Much of it was how clever she was, how she sailed through the lessons that Charles, Hank, and even Moira MacTaggert had assigned to her. _Too smart for her own good,_ Charles thought, a smile playing on his lips. Yet still she was the youngest, the baby, the one who had come soon after his original students had all started their university-level courses. She had filled a hole within his heart, the pain of which had still been fresh, and with each passing day, the hurt had lessened, only he would feel a dull ache every now and then. _But I saved her. I might not have been able to save_ him, _but I was able to save her._

 

“I’ll speak to her this evening,” he said.

 

Jean’s face lit up with relief. “Good. I think it’s better to take care of it sooner rather than later.”

 

“She’s only trying to protect you, Jean. In her way,” Charles said quietly.

 

“But she’s only seventeen years old!” Jean exclaimed. “Professor, there are some things that she shouldn’t be sticking that little French nose of hers into!” Her face flushed, and she averted her eyes from his.

 

“As I said, I will speak to her, and I’ll tell her as much. I’ll even reiterate the point with her tomorrow when Hank and I take her to the Guggenheim. If I have to involve her mother, then so be it.”

 

“I think between you and I, we can handle it,” Jean said before getting up and leaving him.

 

He pondered his conversation with Jean throughout the rest of the afternoon. There certainly _was_ something there, on Jean’s part, no doubt about it, but he wouldn’t question her about it further unless she volunteered more information. But Isabelle… there was no reason for Isabelle to be getting involved in the romantic lives of her cohorts, especially at such a young age.

 

He telepathically called her into his study after dinner, and she came down through the ventilation system in a thread of silvery mist.

 

“That was quite the entrance,” he remarked as she rematerialized in the chair before him.

 

She cocked her head, pouting a little bit. “I thought you would be impressed.”

 

“I am, Isabelle, I am. But I’m haven’t brought you here to discuss dramatic entrances with you.” He wheeled his chair closer to her, sighing as he did so. “Jean has brought something to my attention, and I told her that I would resolve the matter.”

 

Isabelle’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to say something before shutting it again with a click of her teeth. Oh, she _knew_ exactly what it was about, and he wasn’t sure if this would make it any easier.

 

“Is this about what I said to her this morning about Logan?” she said.

 

“It is. And how you really have no place saying anything about it.”

 

She slouched in her seat, folding her arms across her chest, the pout deepening. “ _Someone_ had to say something!”

 

“What do you mean _someone_ had to say something, Isabelle?” he demanded.

 

“ _You_ haven’t seen the colors in their auras!” she cried out. “I saw it between the two of them! And he… he just can’t come in here and _do that_ …”

 

“He hasn’t done anything inappropriate, Isabelle. If there was an issue, Jean would have brought it to my attention.”

 

“But…” she began.

 

“There is nothing further to be discussed, Isabelle,” he told her firmly. “You’ll refrain from saying anything further to Jean or Logan about whatever it is you see. And I’ll work with you on how to improve your shielding. But most importantly, you’re not to involve yourself in matters that don’t concern you. Is that clear?”

 

She sprang up from her seat, her lips trembling as her greenish blue eyes filled with tears. She blinked rapidly, then straightened. “Yes,” she said, her voice cracking a bit. “Yes, it _is_ clear.”

 

He briefly skimmed the periphery of her mind. Yes, it was clear, but she certainly didn’t agree with him. But he wouldn’t argue that point with her. All that mattered was that she didn’t continue to interfere in matters that were none of her concern.

 

                                                                   ******

 

He brought it up with her again on the way to Bleecker Street.

 

She had made sure to dress appropriately for the occasion, since they were meeting one of her uncle’s agents. A black-and-white herringbone shiftdress, black tights, and black flats, and she had blown her mahogany hair out straight. Professor Xavier was dressed in one of his more formal suits and a charcoal tie, like he was going to a business meeting.

 

She made sure to sit on the other side of the dining room during breakfast, not making eye contact with anyone else and instead focusing her attention on _Wide Sargasso Sea_. After going up to her room and pouting for about an hour, she’d taken some time to reflect on what Professor Xavier had said. Maybe she _didn’t_ have a right to say anything, but that didn’t mean that Logan still was someone who could be trusted. There was something about him that didn’t sit right with her. _Like he has something to hide._

She’d tried to keep her misgivings to herself, she really had. But sometimes all she had to do was open her mouth, and she would say what she was thinking, the words tumbling out of her like water bubbling up from a spring. And then feelings would get hurt. Even if she was right.

 

“It’s not a question of being right, Isabelle,” Professor Xavier told her gently as they sat in his Rolls Royce on the way to the house in New York City, on Bleecker Street. “It’s a question of whether or not you wish to maintain the friendships that you have. Your friendship with Jean is very dear to you, and I know that you’re very dear to her.”

 

Isabelle wouldn’t look at him, instead focusing on the pedestrians on the sidewalk across the street. “It’s not that I want to be right,” she said. “It’s just that if I know something is wrong – if I _feel_ something is wrong, and if I can tell what it is – I know I need to do what I can to fix it.”

 

“But not everything is right or wrong, Isabelle. Take Alex and Lorna, for example. They’re going on to graduate school. Would you tell them that they’re making the wrong choice?”

 

Isabelle glanced at him. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s something that’s a step in the direction of what they want to do with the rest of their lives.”

 

“And so you’d be happy for them, no matter what they chose?” he posited.

 

She nodded.

 

“Do you see how this works in the situation at hand, too?” he asked her. “Whatever happens, you’re not involved in anyone’s decisions.

 

“But there’s still something wrong with him.” She tossed her head defiantly. “He’s hiding something.”

 

“We all hide things, Isabelle.”

 

“Not big things. Not things like your name and your identity and where you came from and who your family is…”

 

“And he has reasons for that, Isabelle. Reasons that you couldn’t possibly understand,” Charles said, his tone almost becoming a scolding one again.

 

“Fine, then. I won’t _try_ to understand them,” she replied, giving a little huff and throwing her hands up in the air in defeat. “I’ll be nice to him. I’ll even practice with him and work on the team with him… when I’m ready. But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever like him – not now, and certainly not in the future!”

 

Charles chuckled softly, but didn’t say anything as they pulled up to the house on Bleecker Street where their rendezvous was to be held. It was a tall brownstone, at least three stories, and the shrubs bordering the path to the front door were well trimmed. Isabelle rang the doorbell for Professor Xavier, then waited until the door opened. A slight woman clad in yellow silk robes and a black sash stood before them, her face impassive as she studied both Isabelle, then Charles.

 

“Professor Charles Xavier, is it? And Isabelle de Brignonen?” she said.

 

“Just Brignonen,” Isabelle replied, though Charles shot her a glare and telepathically reprimanded her. “The ‘de’ was dropped after the Revolution, when it was no longer fashionable to be an aristocrat.”

 

The woman’s gray-blue eyes landed on Isabelle, and an amused smile played on her lips. “Indeed? That’s very interesting…”

 

Professor Xavier cleared his throat. “We’re here to see the agent sent by King Hoel of Broceliande.”

 

“He chose this location to hold parley,” Isabelle amended quickly.

 

 _Isabelle,_ Charles scolded, _please._

The woman stood aside, gesturing for them to come in. “Master Racogzi did say that he was waiting for the both of you.” She shut the door behind them once they had entered. “Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum.”

 

Isabelle couldn’t help but wonder at the paneled oak walls of the corridor the woman was leading them through, and she was sure she saw several paintings by well-known masters hanging from the walls, and a few marble busts of Greek and Roman deities gracing a few side tables. Soon they stopped in front of a door made of the same dark paneled oak as the walls, and the woman knocked on it three times before it flew open.

 

“Master Ragoczi awaits you,” she said, stepping aside so that they could enter the study. Isabelle pushed Professor Xavier’s wheelchair into the study. She blinked a few times at the many lit candelabras that blinded her. Once her eyes had adjusted, she saw that the room was a well-used one, with a few tables in the corner littered with scientific and alchemical equipment and shelf after shelf lined with leather-bound books in a host of languages. The fireplace was not in use, but instead was graced with a decorative arrangement of gourds, chrysanthemums, apples, pears, and red and gold maple and oak leaves. A table and two chairs, both of cherrywood, the chairs topped off with burgundy tufted cushions, sat in front of the fireplace.

 

“Ah, so here you are at last!” a mellifluous voice exclaimed. A tall, middle-aged man rose from the oaken writing desk in the corner, setting aside the pages he had been reading. His hands were stained with ink, and Isabelle stifled a giggle when she saw a quill and ink pot on the desk. “Forgive me, I was at work, and you do know how the time flies! I’ve ordered some jasmine tea to be brought…”

 

“Jasmine tea would be wonderful,” Professor Xavier said as Isabelle wheeled him toward the table. The man came to his side, extending his hand.

 

“The name is Leopold George Ragoczi, Comte de Saint-Germain, and I am here on behalf of King Hoel of Broceliande,” he said. Charles took his hand and shook it.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he told Ragoczi, who then faced Isabelle. His hawklike face softened when he saw her.

 

“And both the King and Isabelle’s mother say that you have worked wonders with our Isabelle,” he said, taking both of Isabelle’s hands into his. “My dear, dear girl, let me look at you! I remember holding you in my arms at your christening when you were but a few months old! How quickly the years fly by!” He shook his head, his countenance growing maudlin.

 

“It’s good to see you again, Master Ragoczi,” she said. He pulled her to him briefly, kissing both her cheeks before stepping away and making his way to his chair.

 

“Now you and I must open the parley, Professor. Have you ever conducted a parley with a monarch of Faerie before?” Ragoczi queried, rubbing his hands together eagerly as he sat down.

 

Professor Xavier shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t, Master Ragoczi. If you could explain how it works, please?”

 

“It’s a rather old-fashioned process. But it’s the way it’s always been done, a time-honored tradition. First you and I shall parley, and you shall name your terms. I will then take them to the King, who will hear them from me. If he wishes to treat with you, he will either come to you directly or invite you to Broceliande. Lately, though,” Ragoczi amended, grimacing a bit, “he prefers to visit those he is treating with directly.”

 

“If it comes to that,” Professor Xavier replied, “we would be more than happy to have him as a guest. He’ll be able to see how well his niece has done firsthand.” He smiled at Isabelle.

 

“As for our Isabelle,” Ragoczi said, “the King is most adamant that she know as little of these terms as possible, should something untoward occur. The less people who know of the terms, the better.”

 

Charles glanced at Isabelle, then looked back at Ragoczi. “That is understandable, given the nature of what we’re about to discuss.”

 

Isabelle’s brow clouded. “Professor…” she began.

 

He took her hand for a moment, squeezing it. _Leave us for a few moments, Isabelle. We’ll come to you when we’re finished._

Isabelle pressed her lips together, then looked up at Ragoczi, who offered her a little nod. With that reassurance, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room. When she was finally in the corridor, she jumped and gave a little yelp at the sound of the oaken door slamming shut behind her.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own "X-Men," "Avengers," or any other Marvel properties, but all original characters are mine.
> 
> As discussed in "Change Your Mind, Change Your Life," by the lovely LostMyMarbles, there are many different Faerie courts. However, the primary focus right now is on the nine kingdoms of the Glorious Courts. Charles wants this alliance in case things get ugly.

Once Isabelle was gone, Ragoczi waved his hand, and a pot of steaming jasmine tea and two dainty dishes, all blue-and-white and made of translucent porcelain, appeared on the table beside his chair. Ragoczi rose to pour the tea into the dishes, then handed one of them to Charles.

 

He went back to his chair and sat down. He took a sip of his tea, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored it. “Ah, the perfect balance of jasmine and honey! You don’t know for how long I’ve tried to achieve it. It’s taken me years… well, no, centuries, that is!” He gave a small snicker, then turned to Charles. “Tell me, what do you think of it?”

 

Charles lifted the dish to his lips, taking a sip of the tea. It _was_ very good, he thought to himself. “It’s excellent, Master Ragoczi… if I may call you that…”

 

Ragoczi smiled. “You may. But I would prefer Master Leopold. Master Ragoczi is much too formal, don’t you think?”

 

Charles couldn’t help but laugh at this. “It is,” he assented. “And you may call me Professor.”

 

Ragoczi’s smile broadened. “Professor Charles Xavier. That does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? A distinguished man of some education. I’m familiar with your background, Professor, there is no need to tell me anything. The King of Broceliande and his allies have spies far and wide in this world.”

 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Charles replied. He refrained from probing Ragoczi’s mind; this was a parley, after all, and as the other man had indicated earlier, there were certain rules that must be followed. He had to prove that he was worthy of an alliance with King Hoel and the other Fae monarchs who would be willing to help him. “Then King Hoel and his allies are aware of the plight of mutants in this world… and how I’m determined to make it a better world not only for them, but for normal humans?”

 

“The King and his other allies are all too aware of it. The King has become more preoccupied with the issue because his grandniece is in your care.” Ragoczi sipped his tea. “What is it they call you – the Mahatma Gandhi of Mutantkind?”

 

“The press christened me that,” Charles answered, “but I don’t consider myself to be anything like Gandhi.”

 

Ragoczi inclined his head slightly, his glittering blue eyes suddenly inquisitive. “Also a man of great humility. Humility is an important quality to have, especially when one is a leader in such a crusade as yours. The King will be most impressed.”

 

“Does the King of Broceliande know about my reasons behind having Isabelle approach him to open up a discussion about an alliance, Master Ragozci?” Charles asked.

 

“He is fully aware, Professor. Erik Lensherr has been of interest to the Fae for some time. There was an incident with him and a full-blooded Fae noblewoman…”  


“Full-blooded Fae?” Charles echoed.

 

Ragoczi looked up at him quizzically for a moment, then his expression turned to one of astonishment. “Isabelle hasn’t told you, then, has she, about the schism between the Full-Blooded and the Half- and Diluted-Blood Fae, then, has she?”

 

“She’s explained some of it,” Charles replied, “but not all of it.”

 

“Then there’s no time like the present for it, is there?” Ragoczi waved his hand again, and a plate of scones with bowls of strawberry jam and clotted cream, as well as a plate of pain au chocolate, appeared on the table beside the tea service. “Have a scone while I tell you the story, then. Save the pain au chocolate for Isabelle; she’s quite fond of the stuff.”

 

Charles took a scone and some clotted cream, then placed the dish on the table beside him. Ragoczi helped himself to both cream and strawberry jam, then bit into it, chewing thoughtfully before continuing.

 

“You must understand,” he began, “that the schism began long ago. We Fae roamed the world while you humans were still evolving, and as time wore on, there were two factions among the Fae: those who were fascinated by these creatures who were so like us, and those who deplored them and saw them as little more than cheap imitations of us. Some humans didn’t know of us, some saw us as demigods of sorts, but humans and Fae lived alongside one another, each leaving the other in peace.

 

“All of this changed, though, with the birth of a strange human in the city of Babylon. Tell me,” Ragozci said, setting aside his plate, “do you know the name Apocalypse?”

 

“I’ve heard it,” Charles breathed. “An old friend of mine told me about seeing the name in ancient Hebrew texts. It was said he was stronger than a thousand armies from seven nations…”

 

“He thought himself a god,” Ragoczi said, folding his hands together as his face became grave. “It was he who felled the cities you humans called Sodom and Gomorrah, as is told in the Talmud. Rest assured that the story in the Talmud is but one version. These were Fae cities that he caused the desert to swallow up – so many innocent lives lost! When the other Fae kingdoms saw what he was capable of doing, they were determined to stop him. They marched against him alongside armies from Egypt and Mesopotamia, but to no avail, for he wiped them out as easily as you or I might strike down a regiment of toy soldiers.

 

“It took the armies of the gods to bring him down and to subdue his power, but a great price was paid for it. He had almost depleted our numbers. This, Professor, was the cause of the schism; some of our kind thought that we should interbreed with humans so as to increase our numbers, while a small minority thought it folly. Those who thought it beneath them to breed with humans fled, forming their own kingdom of Elphame in Purgatory, calling themselves Full-Bloods, while those who remained here and multiplied with humans became known as Half-Bloods. In time, as our numbers grew, human blood overtook Fae blood. We coined the term Diluted-Blood for our children who were more human than Fae. As humans began to fear what they could not understand, our kind retreated into our own kingdoms…”

 

“A story I know all too well,” Charles murmured. “What of the Full Bloods? What happened to them?”

 

Ragoczi snickered. “You would laugh at the irony, Professor! They intermarried and interbred with one another, so much so that family trees became family shrubs, and madness overtook the kingdom of Elphame. But a very clever Full-Blooded noblewoman decided to bring new blood into the kingdom. The lady Alaizina of Elphame had heard stories of a very powerful mutant by the name of Erik Magnus Lensherr, and she chose him to help her carry on the bloodline and save the kingdom of Elphame.  My sources tell me that she and Lensherr were intimate while she holidayed in Prague. She returned to Elphame, and nine months later, she bore a son, whom she called Esclados. I’m sure you can guess who the father was.”

 

“He was once a great friend of mine. We had a falling out, a difference of opinion when it came to how mutants should find their place in this world.” Charles sighed, sipping his tea. “He now calls himself Magneto.”

 

“And he is why you have come to King Hoel of Broceliande and the other monarchs of the Glorious Courts for an alliance,” Ragoczi murmured. “He has allies, too. Not Fae, not like our Isabelle or the King of Broceliande, but wielders of magic and alchemy like myself…”

 

“You’ve met them?”  


“Just one. Victor Von Doom, ruler of Latveria. Or, as I like to call him, megalomaniac extraordinaire. He has made himself an enemy of the Glorious Courts, by backing Fata Morgana’s attempt to take the kingdom of Lyonnesse. Let us say that it did not end well for Morgana le Fey. The bells of Lyonnesse rang clear across the sea, sounding the alarm, and the bells of Ys, her sister kingdom, joined her so that the call was heard as far away as the Fae kingdoms of Cockaigne and Milesia, both in the south of France, to Arden in England, to Broceliande in Brittany, to Corbenic in Wales, and to Eremon and Hy-Breseal in Ireland. The armies mustered. Doom and Fata Morgana were not the victors that day.”

 

“Then we have common enemies,” Charles said as he finished his scone.

 

“All the more reason for the King to consider this alliance. He will also wish to see Isabelle’s marks and speak with her teachers. He’s very interested in her development… and how well you handle our Isabelle.” Ragoczi smiled slightly. “We’ve not seen a mutant with Fae blood in some time… not with as pure a line of Fae blood as our Isabelle’s. Her father, damn the bastard, has some, from an Irish line that is so diluted that it’s like weak tea. But we don’t talk about him.” Here Ragoczi shrugged.

 

Charles’s breath caught. The prospect of being interrogated by a Fae king was a daunting one, but he would be up to the task. _We need this alliance,_ he thought to himself. If not to help fight against Magneto when the time came, then to guarantee a refuge should they need it.

 

“Maybe you would like to see the school yourself, Master Leopold?” Charles suggested. “So that you’d be able to take your observations to the King? Isabelle is a model pupil, and a joy to have as a student…”

 

“But there’s more to it, is there?” Ragoczi said. “Is she… a handful?”

 

“She can be. But she’s still very young. One of my other students and I have been working with her to help her control both aspects of her nature.”

 

“Another student of yours?” Ragoczi echoed, his brow furrowing.

 

“A powerful telepath much like myself. She has taken Isabelle under her wing, so to speak, and they’ve become fast friends.”

 

Ragoczi finished his tea and set the cup aside. “I should give you fair warning, Professor, about Isabelle. The two different aspects of her nature, both Fae and mutant, are at odds with each other. Think of it as two discordant notes on a piano. The notes can eventually make a harmony, but it takes much finessing before that can happen. Are you certain that you’re up to the task?”

 

“I am very much up to the task, Master Leopold,” Charles replied, a little defensively. “Isabelle has much potential. I think she’ll be a great asset once she’s ready.”  


Ragoczi nodded. “I trust that you believe you are doing your best by her. But have a care, Professor Xavier. Fae can be extremely charming, and I have never seen any mortal, human or mutant, who is immune to it.”

 

“And if we are not immune to it? If she becomes too much of a burden, what then?”

 

“Then you will call upon me,” Ragoczi said, “and I will take her in hand. There is much that I’ll be able to teach her that you cannot. The day will come when she will be too much for even _you_.”

 

And that…

 

That was hard for Charles Xavier to accept.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magneto knows nothing about the Fae right now. He will find out, eventually, that Charles has one on his team.
> 
> And I think you've gathered that the person Charles couldn't save, as mentioned in Chapter Two, is his son David Haller, who is currently on Muir Island. David and Isabelle are about the same age, and her mother called the Institute just as Charles had found out about his son being beyond any hope of help. So Charles basically accepted the fact that he couldn't help his son, but he could help this girl who sorely needed it, and here we are now, with Ragoczi warning him that he is way out of his depth here.
> 
> And before anyone asks, Ragoczi has encountered both Mr. Sinister and the Inner Circle of the Hellfire Club. Sinister does NOT mess with the Fae.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own "X-Men," "Avengers," or any other Marvel properties, but all original characters are mine. This is in the same universe as the lovely LostMyMarbles's "Change Your Mind, Change Your Life," so if you haven't checked out that fic yet, I strongly urge you to do so. It's a Darcy/Victor von Doom romance, and it is very well done.
> 
> I've also made some edits to the summary of this story. This and "All This and Heaven, Too," are going to comprise a series, which is planned. I don't really want a fic that is 100+ chapters, because that's rather unwieldly.

Isabelle busied herself in the library of the Sanctum Sanctorum while Professor Xavier and Ragoczi had their private conversation. She found an edition of the memoirs of Elisabeth Charlotte of the Palatinate and settled down with it, giggling at the farting episode that the Princess had recalled. Some of the other occupants of the library looked up at her, glaring, and one of them even shushed her. She took the hint and hunched down in her chair to finish reading the memoir.

 

Some time must have passed, because it felt like an eternity before she was telepathically called back to Ragoczi’s study by Professor Xavier. She set the book aside, then made her way back up the stairs to the study. She found both Professor Xavier and Ragoczi seated at the table in front of the fireplace, sipping tea. There was another dish for her, and Ragoczi gestured for her to sit in the chair beside Professor Xavier’s. She gasped when she saw the plate of pain au chocolat.

 

“You have no idea of how much I’ve missed a good pain au chocolat,” she told Ragoczi as she reached for a piece. “My meme makes the best…”

 

“I’ve had the privilege of trying it,” Ragoczi said, smiling at her gently. “And as she says…”

 

“Chocolate cures all ills,” Isabelle finished for him.

 

Ragoczi laughed. “Indeed, it does! After all my years on this earth, nothing cures the ills of the heart and mind like some good chocolate!”

 

“Master Ragoczi has a proposition for you, Isabelle,” Professor Xavier said, his eyes twinkling with amusement at Isabelle’s philosophy.

 

Isabelle’s ears perked up at this. “A proposition?” she echoed, glancing at both men to see if she could read their auras. _Nothing._ Both were shielding.

 

“I would like to visit your school tomorrow afternoon so that I might see your progress for myself. Including your skill with the blade, which Professor Xavier has told me is coming along quite well. And of course, I would like to see your academic record, so that I might give a good report to not only the King, but your mother.” Ragoczi smiled again.

 

“Professor Xavier and I have weekly calls with Maman about my progress,” Isabelle said, the hairs on the back of her neck beginning to rise and her scalp beginning to prickle.

 

“Is that so? Well, then, I shall only be giving my report to the King. The King is very interested in your progress, Isabelle; he wishes only the best for you.”

 

“And I’m doing very well,” Isabelle quipped out, a little more defensively than she would have liked.

 

Ragoczi laughed. “My darling girl, it isn’t that we don’t think Professor Xavier is doing well by you. On the contrary, your mother and grandparents are very pleased with how far you come… and your mother says that you’re quite ahead in your studies. But there may be some things that I might be able to do to supplement your education. The King is adamant that you achieve nothing but your potential.”

 

“Potential?” Isabelle exclaimed, her face growing pale. “Potential for what?”

 

Ragoczi met her aghast stare with a calm one of his own. “Isabelle, as a Princesse du Sang of the kingdom of Broceliande, you are in a unique position. You are in the tutelage of a great man and will one day join him in his crusade for the greater good. You represent the Glorious Courts’ vested interest in this. Normal humans fear what they do not understand. If they fear mutants, then how do you think they will react to the Fae when the time comes for the courts to reveal themselves?”

 

Isabelle knew all too well what would happen if the Fae revealed themselves too soon: widespread panic. It had happened during the Black Death and the Spanish Inquisition, during the conquests of North and South America by European colonizers. The normal humans would panic, and Fae would die.

_Forty years of darkness, earthquakes, volcanoes. The dead rising from the grave. Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together – mass hysteria._ She stifled a giggle at the quote from _Ghostbusters_ that popped in her head.

 

“Sadly, Isabelle,” Charles said, his voice soft, “it’s true, in so many ways. This is why the alliance is so important, to both us and the Fae courts. If we can help humans to overcome their fear of what they do not understand, to accept rather than to revile, think of what it would mean to the Fae kingdoms.”

 

“It would mean much,” Ragoczi added. “It could change the course of history for everyone on this planet, Isabelle, and the Fae could reveal themselves sooner, and help to repair the damage to this planet.”

 

“But what about the other X-Men?” Isabelle demanded. “Professor, not all of them even know…”

 

Ragoczi glanced from Isabelle to Charles, his eyes wide with shock. “You haven’t told everyone on your team about Isabelle and her other aspect?”

 

“I have not,” Charles replied, setting aside his dish of tea. “If you must, Master Leopold, read my mind, and you’ll see why.”

 

Ragoczi looked at Isabelle again, then rose from his chair and took the few steps toward Charles. “I see your aura, and I believe you to be sincere, Professor. But still, I would like to see for myself. May I?” He held out his hand.

 

Charles’s eyes flicked down to Ragoczi’s hand, and he nodded in understanding, placing his palm in Ragoczi’s. Ragoczi closed his eyes, wrapping his long fingers around Charles’s hand. Isabelle gasped at the clear white light that emanated from their grip. Ragoczi held fast to Charles’s hand for a few tense moments, then let go of it, returning to his chair with his hand over his heart.

 

“Grand dieu,” he panted, his face pale with horror, “this is how normal humans react toward you and your kind? I would have thought better of them…”

 

“I’d like to think they would be better, too,” Charles replied gravely, “but the reality is a harsh one.”

 

“I will tell the King of what I saw,” Ragoczi promised, reaching for his dish of tea so that he might pour himself some more. “And Krakoa… I didn’t know it had been a living island. I’m thankful that Isabelle wasn’t there…”

 

“I wouldn’t have sent her anyhow,” Charles said. “She wasn’t ready.”

 

Ragoczi nodded. “Understandable. I see why you wouldn’t want to put her any unnecessary risk.” He reached for Isabelle’s hand momentarily, his fingers grazing her wrist. “This hatred that so many normal humans have for you… it is like a disease. A disease which must be contained.”

 

“It’s more difficult to contain hatred than you would know, Master Leopold,” Charles told him. “And Magneto on the other side of it, with his own disdain for normal humans, only makes the situation more precarious.”

 

“So I see,” Ragoczi nodded. “Then there is no other choice, is there, Professor?”

 

“Choice?” Isabelle said. “What do you mean by ‘choice,’ Master Leopold?”

 

“The alliance between your teacher and the Glorious Courts has become even more important, my dear child,” Ragoczi replied, “for if Magneto is willing to pit himself against your teacher for the sake of his own ideology, what will he do with the Fae reveal themselves? No, the King and the other monarchs of the nine Glorious Courts must be made aware of this. This is a delicate situation that could easily get out of hand.” Ragoczi sighed, pressing his forefingers to his temples. “I shall have to think on this, and consult the King tonight. I will come to you tomorrow, as we agreed, with news of what he has decided.” His bright blue gaze flicked from Charles to Isabelle. “We’ll continue the parley tomorrow. In the meantime, Professor, I suggest that you apprise all of your students about negotiating with the King of Broceliande, so that they themselves are not taken aback when a Fairy Host arrives on your doorstep.”

 

                                                         ******

 

Isabelle and Professor Xavier were quiet on the way back to Salem Center. Professor Xavier was wrapped up in his own thoughts, shielding his aura so that Isabelle couldn’t read it to decipher whatever might be on his mind.

 

She reached into her purse for her iPod and earbuds, plugging her earbuds into the device. She was in the middle of scrolling through her playlist when Professor Xavier cleared his throat.

 

“We will have to let the other students know tonight,” he told her.

 

“What? That I’m a fairy princess? You know that Bobby is going to make fun of me for it.”

 

“Bobby won’t make fun of you, Isabelle, if he understands the gravity of the situation. I’m more concerned about the reaction of the other students, especially the newer ones.”

 

“If they don’t like it, they can leave,” Isabelle said quickly. _Especially Wolverine. If he doesn’t like the fact that I’m part Fae, then he can leave, and everything will go back to how it was. Just like he was never here.”_

  
“Isabelle!” Charles scolded, turning to her with a glare on his face. “No one is leaving. And to be clear, you’re not the one who makes those final decisions. I am, and I’m telling you that you will say _no such thing_ to _any_ of your teammates, Wolverine included! Do you understand me?”

 

“Yes,” Isabelle mumbled, slouching in her seat and scowling as she scrolled through her playlist.

 

“I didn’t hear you say it clearly, young lady.”

 

She straightened, rolling her eyes. “Yes, I understand you, Professor,” she said. “I won’t say anything to anyone about how they ought to go.”

 

“I certainly hope not, or we will need to take this up with your mother. And she certainly won’t appreciate your horrible behavior _or_ your mouth.”

 

“You can’t!” Isabelle exclaimed, sitting even more bolt upright. “What if Maman is having another flare?”

 

“Then I suggest you be on your best behavior, for your own sake, as well as hers,” Charles replied, turning to gaze out the window. “And if this behavior got back to your great-great-great-granduncle the King, I think he would be sorely disappointed in you.”

 

 _Sorely disappointed._ That was one thing she hated, disappointing people, be it Professor Xavier, Jean, Maman, Hank McCoy, Scott, even her other teammates. “I’m sorry,” she said, sincerely this time. “I won’t say anything like that to them, I promise…”

 

“I know you won’t,” Charles said quietly, reaching for her hand. “But remember that this is a very precarious situation. We must tell Scott right away, so that he isn’t put too off guard by it.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“As leader of the X-Men, he will have to know about this proposed alliance, and he’ll have to make the rest of the team aware of it.”

 

 

_  
_


End file.
